


all the magic we gave off

by sumaru



Series: oikage week [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Coffee Shops, Kageyama Tobio's Neon Orange Shorts Are Eternal, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oikage Week, Post-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Red String of Fate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-23 15:51:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14335872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sumaru/pseuds/sumaru
Summary: Oikawa doesn't realise he keeps breaking the red string that binds them.(Kageyama ties it back together again every time.)





	1. Tobio

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Ellie for helping me set up the coffee shop and to Miyu for putting some of the fun coffee shop words in their mouths. Day 3 seriously kicked my ass lmao.
> 
> Written for Day 2 (Prompt: Red String of Fate) and Day 3 (Prompt: Coffee Shop) of OiKage Week.

 

It’s the spring of Kageyama’s first year at Chuo University when he meets Oikawa again.

He hadn’t expected it, at least not yet, had thought that when they make introductions with the volleyball team would be when he would finally see that familiar figure again. Have a little bit of time to think of what he would say. Something mature and thoughtful, and not at all the confession that comes tripping out of his mouth instead.

“Hello again Oikawa-san,” Kageyama blurts out much too loudly. The bright morning sun weaves in and out of the cherry blossom trees that tower over them, and the entire world suddenly feels both too big and too small, like Kageyama can’t remember what exists outside of himself, and Oikawa here with him — there is only this path that leads to the university gym, where everything is blindingly pink and breathless. Spring this year has been especially warm and he can feel himself already sweating uncomfortably, sticking his tshirt to his chest, the fabric like a vise around his lungs. “I’ve always liked—”

“Absolutely not,” Oikawa immediately snaps. There’s a pink petal caught in the sweep of his bangs. The couple of years since Kageyama has seen him in person has only sharpened the line of his jaw, and Kageyama swallows with difficulty. “You’re looking well, Tobio-chan,” Oikawa adds, vowels slowed with something that sounds almost like kindness, and it’s maybe all the overwhelming cherry blossom light crowning them that’s getting to him, but Kageyama doesn’t dare hope. Spring has always been a tricky season. “Don’t ruin it.”

“Ruin what—” Kageyama tries, but Oikawa is already walking ahead, and that’s when he sees the careless wave of Oikawa’s hand snap a thin red string that had been pulled taut to breaking between them. 

Kageyama frowns. Kageyama looks down. Kageyama feels his heart seize with a nameless dread at the now limp red string that’s wrapped in loops around his wrist, loose and dead against the soft black of his jersey jacket. He picks up the slack and runs after Oikawa’s retreating back. “Can you see this? Oikawa-san, wait!”

“Still just as bratty and annoying,” Oikawa doesn’t turn around as he continues walking at a brisk pace. “I see we’re off to a great start.”

“No, look, this was,” Kageyama tries again, _why is Oikawa-san always so **frustrating**_ , holding out the coils of red string, trying to grab at the limp string end that dangles from Oikawa’s own wrist.

“What am I supposed to be looking at? You trying to paw at my hand like the world’s worst first date? Don’t think I’ll swoon just because you’re National-Invite-chan now. You’ll have to do better than that to impress me.”

 _He can’t see it_ , Kageyama realises as Oikawa turns to look inside his gym bag for the keys. There’s even more petals clustered at the nape of Oikawa’s neck, delicate and soft against the soft skin, naked and new to the sun. Oikawa has shorter hair now, Kageyama thinks with a sort of wonder, wavy layers with an undercut razored clean for competition. It feels so completely disorienting and Kageyama is staring so intently at the back of Oikawa’s head he doesn’t notice they’ve stopped right in front of the gym doors. His nose almost bumps into the soft wave of Oikawa’s hair, and he’s hit with the scent of a minty herbal shampoo and fresh sweat from an early morning run, and Kageyama’s entire chest just clenches with want. He’s been chasing for so long. He’s right here where he finally wants to be.

“Not that I’m encouraging you,” Oikawa continues as he unlocks the doors and pushes past them. He stops to turn around and that’s when Kageyama sees the challenge alight in Oikawa’s face, the eyes narrowed dangerously, that razor smile that’s nothing but teeth.

 _This_. This is something Kageyama has always known.

 

 

*

 

 

Kageyama is assigned to a dorm with Oikawa when they formally start their training, and it feels like the sort of spring fortune only Kageyama can have, the kind of natural misfortune only Oikawa can suffer, and Oikawa makes sure to never let up on him even once.

“You need to work on your rotation,” Oikawa greets him first thing in the morning. 

“Don’t think even a little genius like you can slack,” Oikawa calls after him as he sets up another spike for Kageyama, honing their every possible playing edge during one of those particularly complicated drills Oikawa runs for them, long after general practice has finished.

“At least you can write your own name,” Oikawa tuts as he cheerily writes in corrections on Kageyama’s paper for English class.

The red thread connecting them breaks every time, caught somewhere in the airy gestures of Oikawa’s hand and the sharp reprimands of his mouth, and Kageyama always carefully knots the ends together again, every time, a double knot, the best he can make, trying not to count the growing number of knots that dot the length between them. The thread grows and shrinks as needed. It snakes in and out of the fabric of their lives.

Kageyama sometimes finds it tangled in the bathroom drain with Oikawa’s hair. He thinks someone normal would probably find it disgusting to have to gently pick apart matted, wet strands twisted into the string, but he’s long since given up on normal when he can see a red halo of string flare around the crown of Oikawa’s head when he’s moody. Oikawa caught him once like that, hunched over himself on the cold tiles with only a little towel in his lap, trying to carefully knot the ends together. Oikawa had leered at him, had asked him if he had finally figured out how to be an adult. Kageyama had flushed bright red, trying not to move the now precariously perched towel. But nothing truly ever stops him from watching Oikawa, from noticing the way his muscles shift under the smooth tan skin, the way the light catches just the corner of his mouth, and he had seen the way tension had flowed from Oikawa’s shoulders like water running down the drain, as Kageyama had smoothed down the newly-formed knot.

He feels it tugging at the sensitive skin inside of his wrist right before Oikawa calls him for his set, before he learns the way Oikawa breathes right before the jump, before Oikawa shows him how to smash the ball at an angle so angry it’s like a knife across the end line.

He can feel it waking him up as the sun crawls over the treetops in a burst of orange and red, and when Kageyama walks out into the common area, dressed in his running gear, he finds Oikawa already there, zipping up his windbreaker.

“Very ugly, Tobio-chan,” Oikawa waves at Kageyama’s bright orange shorts. “Suits you.”

“I can say the same for yours,” Kageyama throws right back before he realises fully what Oikawa means. “Not you. Your shorts. Your shorts are also ugly. But you’re beauti—”

“What did I say before,” Oikawa cuts him off. “Don’t ruin it.”

Oikawa’s shorts are an alarmingly bright seafoam green and he looks amazing in them, the few inches he’s gained in height adding only to the length of his lean, toned thighs. Kageyama doesn’t think that there’s anything that could ever make Oikawa ugly, not when he’s seen Oikawa blotchy and red after the five long matches of their first official practice game, sweat sticking his bangs straight up against his forehead, rivers of it streaking dark down the sides of his jersey. Their teammates had teased Oikawa for ruining the perception of his fangirls so quickly, but Kageyama could only think about how Oikawa had glowed like the spring sun through the trees, standing right there on the same side of the court as him.

They jog along the path that cuts through the campus green, quiet with the quiet of the morning, and Kageyama lets Oikawa clock their time while he tries to think of what it means that the red string seems to be floating so easily between them now, pulling only when Oikawa looks back at him, urging him to follow faster.

 

 

 


	2. Tooru

 

It’s the spring of Oikawa’s third year at Chuo University when he meets Kageyama again.

Kageyama comes back into his life with a rush of cherry blossom petals flushed pink across his cheek, and something hot and heavy twists Oikawa's belly into knots. It's a feeling he works tirelessly to bury, but the deeper he pushes it down, the more it gets all wound up inside him, tied tight around his lungs, a prickly, sweaty, restless morning awareness that tugs at him the moment he senses Kageyama waking up with the sun to start the coffee machine.

"Black coffee is for boring people," Oikawa announces as he packs up his laptop and books for class. Kageyama is carefully placing two pale blue mugs on the little table. Watching the smooth, assured movement of Kageyama's hands anywhere but on the court makes the sensitive skin on the inside of Oikawa's wrists ache with want. "People who watch boring TV shows and people who are boring in bed."

The points of Kageyama's cheeks flush bright red, but he doesn't look away. “Oikawa-san, are you askin—”

“Absolutely not.” Oikawa flings the door open. The air between them is coiled tight red, building up for the freefall, and he doesn't want to be here when it happens. It's too early for this. It'll always be too early for this. “Whatever you're about to ask? No. Request denied.”

But Kageyama doesn't stop making that extra mug of coffee for him. Oikawa doesn’t need to drink it to know it’ll burn the entire way going down.

 

 

*

 

 

Oikawa starts seeking refuge at any coffee shop he can find. He becomes a menace at the Starbucks three blocks off the main campus, camped out at the only electrical outlet for hours on end. He finishes all of his assignments days ahead of schedule and feverishly puts together memo after memo of rotations for the team — he’s expecting the nomination for captaincy any day now.

The stream of nameless people who filter in and out at the edges puts him at ease. Sunlight floods the air golden and unmoving. Oikawa barely notices time wind itself slowly around his wrist until Kageyama texts him about grabbing a bite to eat before afternoon practice and then it all comes rushing back in, every morning that he leaves too early so he doesn’t have to see how Kageyama never looks away, and it pulls a fresh tangle of knots right down into the pit of his stomach. The sunlight that was painting the back of his head so pleasantly is suddenly a sharp reminder of a long chase pulled up short, a surprised single breath puffed out warm and longing against his nape.

 _Someone as popular as Oikawa-san always has a lunch date_ , Oikawa texts back as he quickly places a mobile order, fingers tap-tapping viciously as the back of his neck burns, waiting for that snap of relief. _You’re years too slow, Tobio_.

“Venti quad java chip frappuccino with eight pumps of caramel for Oikawa,” the barista calls out from behind the counter. It’s Oikawa’s third crime against nature today. “That’s a very exciting drink you got this time.”

“I’m a very exciting person,” Oikawa smiles charmingly as he resigns himself to the little bell over the door that he knows will soon chime a greeting.

Kageyama gapes when he sees Oikawa and his latte lunch. His entire face does that stupid frowning thing it does when he struggles with what comes first and what should actually come out. “Oikawa-san, that much whipped cream and sugar will make coach mad again,” Kageyama offers instead, but there’s eagerness writ large across the blue of his eyes, and when those fingers of his press together so single-mindedly, the spool of all of Oikawa’s hard work snaps under the pressure.

“Well, I hope your six cups of black coffee give you a heart attack.” Oikawa pushes toward the door. His drink is bitter on his tongue now and he just wants to spit it out. “What happened to the cute kouhai who would only drink milk?”

Oikawa rearranges the full of Kageyama’s training regimen and sets them on a pace for the intercollegiate games so intense he thinks Kageyama will finally crack. But he never complains. Kageyama had been placed under Oikawa’s mentorship and he takes to it like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted in his entire life, and the palms of Oikawa’s hands grow warm with the impossible weight of it.

He buys Kageyama a milk box on the way home anyway, catches that coiled feeling in the door of their dorm as he closes it, makes sure to close it tight.

 

 

*

 

 

Kageyama thinks he’s being subtle, but the way the skin of Oikawa’s wrist tingles is absolutely unbearable.

Oikawa calculates the different trajectories for the way Kageyama spikes a cross-court, how Kageyama works as hard as he does because they’ve always been chasing after the same bright golden future, if Kageyama will ever stop meeting him however far he goes ahead. He finds a different Starbucks to terrorise, on those early mornings he can’t run off the feeling that grows more and more taut between them. Standing in their little shared space beside Kageyama who makes his coffee black, and always unsure if he wants to knock the mug out of Kageyama’s hands, or accept it.

“You don’t run from things, Oikawa-san,” Kageyama insists as he stands over Oikawa’s table at the tiny Starbucks that’s tucked away near the law department. It’s raining outside and Kageyama’s wet hair shines like lacquer and in his hand he’s gripping something so earnest and tight, it’s squeezing Oikawa’s lungs breathless, too. “So why are you doing this? We work well together. We can be even better.”

“Gross, Tobio,” Oikawa titters instead. He can’t help himself. He doesn’t have to see what is in Kageyama’s hand to feel the tightrope strung to breaking between them right now. “You’re dripping nasty rainwater all over me.”

“Let me buy you a coffee,” Kageyama tries again.

“Let me set for you in our next practice game,” Kageyama tries again.

Rain is hitting the glass with the plink of tiny bells and Oikawa feels his head ringing the same. His fingers are chilled stiff in this weather, and he rubs his hands together, unused to them being this cold after months of that fever running right under his skin, on the inside of his wrists, in the soft centre of his palms.

“Let me tell you how I feel,” Kageyama tries one more time. His voice breaks a little he’s so forceful and Oikawa watches the dip of his brow grow more and more desperate. It’s such a familiar face, a good face, Oikawa feels something inside him untangle in a flush of warmth.

“My impertinent little kouhai makes so many outrageous demands of me while looking like a drowned cat,” Oikawa hums. But before Kageyama’s mouth goes flat, he adds, “Small coffee, four sugars, heavy cream.”

He’s not even sure if Kageyama hears the last part he takes off so fast to place the order. But Oikawa gently wraps the coil of this feeling around his wrist anyway, to stay this time, to look at in the face when the sun filters pale gold through their dorm during those early mornings, and he wonders if he should tug it just a little, to make sure he gets that heavy cream; to see how strongly it holds.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> (Each knot that Kageyama ties makes the bond between them stronger.)
> 
> The red string is Kageyama learning to be more emotionally aware; the coffee is Oikawa learning TO DRINK DOWN THE BITTER TRUTH WITHOUT SPITTING IT OUT.
> 
> Also don't give Oikawa a red string he'll just use it to make you fetch him dumb things.


End file.
